His voice fell away, muttering. Then again he was crying:
"Is that the land, Dan, that line against the sky over there? No, don't y' see there—there, man. God! Don't say it isn't! How long have we been in this boat? Seems years ... been seein' the sea, them blasted little blue waves jumpin' up 'n lickin' my face! Better throw me overboard, Dan. Dan? Better throw me overboard ... can't stand it any longer. The thirst and the pain in me head, Dan."
Mary turned pitiful eyes on him, rocking Davey and hushing him gently, as he wakened and began to cry querulously.
"A sail!" the sick man shouted. "Some blasted clipper for the Port, d'y' think she'll see us, Dan? Are we too far away? Will the waves hide us?"
He sank back wearily, muttering again.
"I'll not be caught ... not be taken alive, Dan." He started up crying angrily. "I'd rather go to hell than back. A-u-gh!"
A shriek that curdled the blood in her veins, a cry that sped upwards in an uncurling scream of uncontrollable anguish, flew from the sick man. Another and another.
Mary looked at the man before her questioningly.
The lines about his nose were bent to a faint and bitter smile; but there was no smile in his eyes.
"Thinks he's being flogged," he said. "He would be if we were caught—taken back again. You know where we came from?"